Paul Bratter

— Paul. If the honeymoon doesn't work out, let's not get divorced. Let's kill each other.
— Let's have a maid do it. I hear the service here's wonderful.

— When else? When else was I proper and dignified?
— All the time. You're always dressed right. You always look right. You always say the right thing. You're very nearly perfect.
— That's a rotten thing to say.
— Before we were married, I thought you slept with a tie.
— No, just for very formal sleeps.
— Boy, you have absolutely no sense of the ridiculous. Like last thursday night, you wouldn't walk barefoot with me in Washington Square Park. Why not?
— Simple answer. It was 17 degrees.

— I'm trying to get you all hot and bothered, and you're... summing up for the jury! I mean, the whole marriage is over.
— Corie, honey, I'm sorry. I guess I'm excited, that's all. You want me to be rich and famous, now, don't you, really?
— During the day. At night I want you here and sexy.
— Oh, I will. Look, I tell you what, now tomorrow night, your night. We'll do whatever you like, all right?
— Something wild, and crazy, and insane?
— Fine.
— Like what?
— I... I'll come home early. We'll wallpaper each other.

— Paul? Are you asleep?
— Just my hands and my feet.
— Paul, do you know what the trouble is? We're wearing too much clothing. You know how the Eskimos keep warm?
— They check into a motel.

— Paul, do you hate me?
— Yes.
— Then say it.
— I hate you.
— Then I hate you. There's somebody at the door.
— If it's the Red Cross, let them in.

And thus it was written. "Some shall die by pestilence, some by the plague..." And one poor schnook is gonna get it from a hole in the ceiling.